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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28615464">Surface Tension</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/loiterlitter/pseuds/loiterlitter'>loiterlitter</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Canon Related, Friendship, Gen, Homesickness, Inspired by Real Events, Jock Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), No Romance, Real Life, Sad TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), basically they're all closer in age compared to irl, they're going to use real names</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:33:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,232</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28615464</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/loiterlitter/pseuds/loiterlitter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Where the hell are you?</em> was the last unanswered text Tommy sent to Wil, who has been missing for nearly 6 months. Tommy had to suddenly move to London, leaving the only traces of his best friend behind. At his new school, he meets a guy named Clay, who seems to know something Tommy doesn't. Maybe he can help Tommy answer that question?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clay | Dream &amp; Toby Smith | Tubbo &amp; TommyInnit, Clay | Dream &amp; TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream &amp; Wilbur Soot &amp; Phil Watson, Clay | Dream &amp; Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit, Ranboo &amp; Toby Smith | Tubbo &amp; TommyInnit &amp; Phil Watson, Toby Smith | Tubbo &amp; Wilbur Soot, Toby Smith | Tubbo &amp; Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit &amp; Phil Watson, TommyInnit &amp; Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot &amp; Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit &amp; Phil Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>REMINDER: In case you haven't looked through the tags, this work does NOT involve any romantic or sexual elements. In no way, shape, or form do I condone the behavior of romanticizing and sexualizing minors. Please do not associate me with those creators. With that out of the way, please enjoy :)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He once told Tommy: <em>it's futile</em>. Tommy never understood what he meant. He would stay over and talk about worlds and galaxies light-years from here. From them. How there might be life out there in the vast cosmos. Or he would talk about koalas; why it's as if all they do is nap and eat eucalyptus trees. And after that, they would stare at the ceiling until they fall asleep.
</p><p>He'd throw words and ideas into the air like they were fireworks. They don't stop, until he runs out of words and his voice echoes, bouncing back from the corners, receding into silence; Tommy glancing to see if he'd suddenly, somehow, fallen asleep because he was so riled up just moments ago. On fire, talking like the whole world was there to listen, yet there was only one teenage boy lying in the dark next to him, quietly listening.

</p><p>When he's not telling stories he'd stare off into space with this questionable gaze. There's a dark, hollow abyss within those orbs, that Tommy never dared to swim in. Else he would get pulled under. Tommy never knows what he's thinking. <em>But he wants to. Tommy wants to pop his head open, like pulling a cork, like it's aged wine. He wants to know what's inside.</em>

</p><p>Tommy came to his graduation. It was years ago, middle school, but the memory of it still plays in the back of his mind sometimes, frame for frame. Like a broken video tape. He wore a crisp, black suit. Flowers in his hands. The MC said, "Go to your parents. Give them the flowers, and say, <em>I love you, Mum and Dad.</em>" He passed the flowers to his mum, because she was the one who came, and walked away. His lips stayed intact, clasped onto each other, instead of 'I love you, Mum'. Even at a distance his eyes were somber. He came back to join the other kids to smile in photos. Tommy still has them, tucked somewhere in one of his desk drawers.

</p><p>Phil was there too.

</p><p><em>It's futile.</em>

</p><p>Tommy grasps the doorknob. He stalls. <em>There's going to be a bed, a desk, and a person lying down. Or at least there should be. He's never been here</em>. He turns the doorknob.

</p><p>There's a bed. A wardrobe. A work desk. Two mirrors. One of them is a floor mirror. Totaled, missing a few shards. Tattered curtains. On top of the messy sheets was a basketball.

</p><p>Tommy has his phone in his pant pocket, still on with the battery high. He could call Phil right now, tell him about what he sees. Say that he believes it now because when Phil told him he went, <em>"No, no, no, no, no."</em> But he's too caught up in what's in front of him. His chest stirs.

</p><p>He's gone.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Wisps</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tuesday, July 15th</p><p>Mum always tells Tommy things. When she's struggling, or when she's out of it, she pours wisps of thoughts into him. He lets them linger. Seep in. Carry the weight of it. Some of them he does understand, some he doesn't; why she gets so worked up over the people at work and their pesky gossips, why some of the neighbors piss her off, why politics really, really confuse her. Why she 'sometimes' hates dad. Why? Sometimes Tommy's scared if it wasn't just 'sometimes', but mum always says, "It gets like that, but I don't hate him."</p><p>Today she told him something again.</p><p>"Don't tell anyone," she said, at the very end. Then she carried on with whatever she was working on; chores, or cooking or work. Tommy sits in his room, mind rushing.</p><p>It's 6.00 pm. The men in white uniform had already filled the living room with boxes. Almost. The couch is gone. They're uninstalling the TV mount and the display shelves. Windows are bare, last sheds of daylight rushing in. Everyone's shuffling around busying themselves with something, but Tommy doesn't know what to do with his hands.</p><p>There's one thing mum didn't tell him: how he's going to deal with this.</p><p>If this town owed him something. It's closure. He still doesn't have answers, only questions. Something is gone. Missing. A replacement isn't what he needs, rather a concrete clue. He thinks, the answer won't come up that easily. He has to try. Maybe he should go and ask the street corners, the abandoned playgrounds, the flower fields, the little stone bridge, the riverbanks, the busking cafes and pizzerias, where everything took place.</p><p>He doesn't want London.</p><p>He grabbed his phone. Stared at his contacts list, pressed a number, finger hovering over the call button. But he put his phone down and sat on the edge of the bed. His stomach churned, thoughts overlapping and going into overdrive. The walls around him shrink.</p><p>3 days. What's gonna happen?</p><p>He doesn't feel like packing up. Maybe the men will do it for him. He'll let them see his diaries, written in bad handwriting, laced with sentiments; school notes filled with more nonsensical scribbles than notes itself; unsent letters to one person and one person only, the envelopes all still glued intact. He'll let them sort through his boxes of old toys and displays. They probably won't tear open the letters. <em>It's fine.</em></p><p>At dinner time, the men ate outside, then went home. Mum told him to sleep early. He said yes, even though he won't. He'd left the AC on in his room all day as the afternoons have been hopeless, blaring heat. But right now all he needs is warmth. His blankets in the corner are telling him, <em>climb in. It's warm.</em> Maybe if he closed his eyes, he'll sleep forever and he won't have to leave. </p><p>
  <em>Tommy.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yeah?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You ever just, want to run away?</em>
</p><p>It's late, he's getting desperate. He poured the night over soda and ice, hoping it'll keep him wide awake. Not the best he could whip out from the counter. But he knows that the rows of Tanqueray inside the cupboard aren't going to conquer him. The glass clinks when he lifts it to his mouth. Cold liquid washes over his mouth, but his tongue is numb and now it just tastes like water.</p><p>When he tries to sleep, his mind doesn't let up. He gets out of bed, grabs a towel and a fresh shirt, and steps into the shower. He hopes the water will wash over the clutter of his mind; liquid thoughts dripping, flowing silently through his skin, then down the drain. He hopes that it'll steady him right before he could tumble. Or maybe he'll let himself be submerged in the bathtub, bubbles in his eyes. Noises would be drowned out; the ringing in his ears, the static, the silent reality screaming at him; the water will tune it all out.</p><p>After all his fingers had pruned up, the bathwater now ice cold, he gets out. Water drips from the ends of his hair. He lies down in his bed, his pillowcase dampening. After tossing and turning, nothing works.</p><p>
  <em>You'll leave this place soon. The hours are running low, do something. Tell someone. Call Phil.</em>
</p><p>It's almost tomorrow, but he stalls as if he could slow the time. He glued his eyes shut. At this ungodly hour of midnight, no one would be awake. Not mum, or dad, or his cousins, or his uncle. The clock says 2 am. It's already Wednesday.</p><p>
  <em>Look, big man. I'll be moving out of town on Friday. Said we're going to London. I know this is sudden, but... ugh.</em>
</p><p>The house is silent. Rooms are dark, hollow, and devoid of life; stripped of furniture and signs of inhabitation. He travels through the hallways, to the main room, then out the front door. He hopped on his bike and rode away, gliding through the streets. He looks around the neighborhood for the last time.</p><p>He pulled up in front of a particular house. He rang the bell, hoping for a click on the door and a familiar face. It didn't come after a minute.</p><p>"What... It's like 2 am."</p><p>Tommy lets out a deep, spiritual sigh. Phil waits. Tommy opens his mouth, but his lips quiver and the words don't make it out.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Melody</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Thursday, August 27th
</p><p>In the morning, Tommy awakes to London sunshine and morning air. His eyes are clouded. The sunlight feels artificial. Before his mom could shuffle around in the kitchen, he'd made himself cereal and put the TV on low volume. Then he watches the morning news, sipping on a spoonful of milk. What could be going on in the world? Presidential elections? Nuclear tests? Civil wars? Natural disasters? The reporter's words would make their way into Tommy's ears, but he'll hear nothing. After a minute his eyes will stare off into space, and he tunes everything out.
</p><p>This is London Tommy. Boring, news loving, strangely silent. He will space out every time you talk to him, because his mind is always someplace else. He will only offer a simple nod, a blank smile to be polite; occasionally, tentative answers, absentminded replies, or a yes or no.
</p><p>He stares down at his now soggy cereal, dew dripping from the edges of the bowl to his hands.
</p><p>The weather forecast is on. He listens; barely listening, half-listening, half daydreaming; to the reporter talking about London weather and climate change. Today is going to be sunny. 'Mostly clear, no clouds in sight', he hears. Maybe a little humidity. High wind speed, very windy. <em>Okay.</em> Maybe he should try going outside. Maybe he should stop playing Minecraft for 16 hours straight every day to run away from his own mind, and start going through the things floating about his brain. He has actual things to deal with, but he doesn't want to think; he doesn't really want to hear anyone's voice, not even his own, because there's a wave of sadness in it, so particular that he doesn't want to let anyone hear; he doesn't want to listen to people telling him how to think. How to act. How he should come to terms with things: the London soil under his feet; the suffocation whenever he breathes his first breath in the morning; the musty London air; the absence of people he knows; the presence of people he barely knows. When he walks through the streets, their faces twist into a blur and he is suddenly six times smaller than that of six feet one.
</p><p>Maybe he should take a step outside. Just a few steps from the front porch, not too far. There'll be grass and fresh air, those will be good for him. It's not like he lives in the center of town, where salarymen and tourists and other strangers bustle around and everything feels cramped.
</p><p>He should try.
</p><p>"Gosh," mum said. She's standing in the hallways, right outside the laundry room, fresh clothes in her hands. Tommy stares into his mother's eyes and waits for something. "You could use some sleep, Tom. Could you?"
</p><p><em>Is that all you have to say, Mum?</em> He wants to say. <em>Okay</em>, he should say. At least. But before she could finish talking he'd turned away and went to lock himself up in his cold, dark room, like most days.
</p><p>Phil calls him over the weekends. Sometimes on workdays when he claims to be 'free', and of course on moving day. Phil didn't ask "How's London?" because he already knew the answer. These days he'd try to ask Tommy how he's doing, but doesn't press. He never pries or demands 'clearer answers'. After "I'm good", he'll move on to other things. Occasionally throw in rants about college. Cracks jokes. But he speaks in a tone so careful, so cautious, so knowing. Call after call, Phil catches on to the slowly thinning will of his friend. The void in his words. He hears life ebbing away from Tommy's voice, even through the phone, miles away from where he is.
</p><p>Sometimes he sounds like a therapist, but Tommy wishes he didn't. <em>That's too sad and dark.</em> He wants to go back to video games and late-night calls, but all he's been doing is sleep. Force himself to wake up. Eat. Watch TV. Sleep. Repeat.
</p><p>Clouds hang low on the horizon. Tommy watches them  shift around in the skies and merge, thickening into dark grey lumps. The weather forecast lied.
</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p><em>It's raining. You don't want to go outside?</em>
</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>No.
</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p><em>Come on. We can jump on puddles.</em>
</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>We can't.
</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p><em>Why not? Here, have my raincoat.
</em>
</p><p>Don't.
</p><p><em>Tommy?</em>
</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>He stares at the hoodie draped around the chair near the window. Droplets of water hit the window, blurring the glass. He pauses, yanks the hoodie, but shoves it to the bed. Then he paced through the hallways to the front door. Rain poured on the front yard, the terrace, and the streets. Cold mists float above the grass. In his mind, he opened the gates and ran. He sprinted through the neighborhood, the houses, running through what felt like blocks. And then his breath will turn cold and he'll drown in the downpour. Instead, he's standing still, watching the wind drive the rain in different directions. He wills his legs to work; to walk to the gates and run through the rain. It worked. Kind of. He puts the key on the lock and clicks it open. Sun peeked from behind him, where the skies are starting to clear in the distance.
</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>His legs are jelly.
</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>He walks past the houses and stops. The sun is taking over. Knives of rain settle down and shrink into little droplets. Shadows form right before his eyes: of trees, of streetlights, of himself. As he watches his shadow dance in the rain everything suddenly feels like a fever dream. It sways in the watery concrete, then disappears into the dark clouds hovering in the sky. Maybe he could wake up and find himself in Nottingham, tucked in bed, in the warmth of his bedroom. Not standing in the middle of a neighborhood street in London looking stupid. But the rain hammering atop his head, water falling from his chin, they're all telling him: it's real. This is real. <em>You are real.</em>
</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>Tommy's not sure if he knows the way back home.
</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>He wakes up the day after, with his body heavy. His throat is dry. Harsh sunlight flashed through his half-open eyelids. The windows are still wet with leftover rain and morning dew, and his blankets are halfway on the floor. He only gets up to shut the curtains, lock the door, and switch off his bed lamp. He turned off his phone and slept through the afternoon.
</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>On days Phil doesn't call, Tommy would lie in bed all day. Submerging himself in the sheets because the outside world is too much work and his parents is difficult. Sometimes he's on his phone. Most of the time, asleep. <em>Because when you're in deep slumber, you don't have to be present. You don't have to confront anything. Not even your own thoughts can get you.</em>

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p>After sunset, he woke up with a strong jab on his head. How many hours has it been? Seven? Nine? He stood to switch on the bed lamp, only to turn it back off. He took a seat in the darkest corner, on an old wooden chair. When he looks into the mirror, he sees a boy devoid of life. It was as if he'd been losing sleep for days. Punched in both eyes. Distant music begins to play in his head: a random, blurry melody.
</p><p>Tommy stares at the ceiling. 
</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p><p><em>You ever cried so hard you just fall asleep?</em> He would say to Phil on the phone, with his voice honest and clear. Even if there's going to be 3 seconds of silence. Even if Phil wouldn't know how to respond. At least Tommy will be honest. Maybe his new habit of rehearsing conversations will finally bear fruit; he will finally be able to talk to Phil properly. But when he scrolls through his call logs, all of them are incoming calls, all the conversations proof that Phil's been <em>trying</em>, yet Tommy's done nothing but lose grip. Now he's sitting in the corner of his room, wondering where things went wrong, because when Phil asks, "How are you?" he never knows where to start.

</p><p>
  <em></em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This will be slow-paced, not just my updates but the plot itself, so be prepared. Btw if you have the time please consider putting this in your library on Quotev and Wattpad as I've also posted there :) my username is the same everywhere</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Statues</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Monday, September 16th</em>
</p><p>Tommy opens his eyes to his sun cast ceiling every day at 8.30 a.m., now that school started again, but something is missing. His chest would stir and tighten, and clench when he tries to clutch it in his hands. In the afternoons, clouds lay around the distant horizon. The skies are not vibrant blue. They're gray and purple and dulled out. The buildings are taller, the houses bigger, the corners less welcoming. His eyes dart everywhere, but everything looks and feels of the same gray, the same off tune. It's like being colorblind. When Tommy brings his hands close to his face, they're boney and cold.
</p><p>In his new school's main building, huge, red lockers line along the hallways, unlike the ones in his old school. They fit twice as much as his old locker could, where it'd only hold his bag, two tennis rackets, and his sports shoes. He walks up to his locker. A major portion of it is still empty. There's only his red and black backpack and a stack of new textbooks. Crisp, edges clean, from the library. He took out a few textbooks and walked off.
</p><p>People bustle around him, taking up space in the hallways, laughing and talking about the holidays. For every meter he passes by, everyone is talking among themselves. Not to him. Not about the new kid with the white shirt and red sleeves, who holds his textbooks close to his chest and walks with his body close together because he doesn't know how much space he should be occupying, and he'd assumed the less the better. No one is coming up to him to ask him his name, where he's from, or how his morning went. If orientation went well for him, or if he needs to talk to someone.
</p><p>He does. But instead of his therapist, his parents, and his guidance counselor, the list of people he's been talking to goes: a 20-something-year-old college student, and himself. He talked to Mr. Joseph, his counselor, sure. After the first session in his first week, nothing much changed. Tommy told Mr. Joseph about his uncertainty for the future and university, instead of what's actually going on; spending sessions talking about college life and jobs, where Tommy would put on a face, pretending he's listening very intently, and committing to whatever he's writing down on the many forms and papers Mr. Joseph hands him. Pretending he's okay and everything is okay and he's just a typical teenage boy worried about his own future, just like everyone else.
</p><p>When it gets too much, Tommy will try to call people; Charlie, Jack, Freddie, <em>Phil</em>; he'd press call, scare himself off with useless doubts, and then chicken out. Press disconnect. Or sometimes when it's Phil the call would've already gotten through, and Phil would've already said something, but he'll just hang up on him without a word, because fuck it, right? He'll just carve a hole on the wall and creep his way in, let his thoughts crawl in it, and they'll never come back out. He's been rehearsing conversations in his head, but he'll never be having any of them. He'll be saying no such thing as "You know I really, genuinely need to talk to you right now."
</p><p>He'd dial Wil's number, then it'll go straight to voicemail. "It's me, if you hear this I might be busy right now, so please leave a message!" Tommy would really like to leave one. Three, actually. No, more. But if he does, it'll pile up on Wil's end, if he does his thoughts would spill all over and it'll all be too fucking obvious, if he starts leaving one he'll do it every day and he wouldn't want to stop, because what if?
</p><p>Tommy would lie back down with a shrinking feeling, even though he'd known it would always turn out the same. And then he'll ring the number one last time before taking an 8-hour nap because staying awake drives away the air from his lungs and it makes it hard to breathe.
</p><p>These past two weeks he's been spending time in the art room. It has pretty windows; floor to ceiling pristine glass with white frames, cleaned every week (it seems, as the garden is perfectly visible through it). There's a back door the students can enter the backyard from. Tommy pictured them roaming in and out of the room, drying their oil paintings and sculptures under the sun, or sitting scattered on the grass painting nature. Sunlight is always plenty. Tommy lets the door open and takes a seat on the cedar wood indoor bench. It's a routine for him now, sitting in the art room during lunch break and staring at clouds morph into layers and shift through the wind. Occasionally he would sit outside in front of the drinking fountain, in the sun; on the grass, foot bare after he'd taken his socks off; or against the windows, on the concrete path that leads to the main building. The garden is surrounded by fences and willow oaks, there is always enough shade for him not to get sunburnt.
</p><p>Today he takes his time to observe each of the paintings. A lot of them are of forests and ice mountains, some are flowers and others are fruit platters. There's a painting by a particularly gifted person, of a see-through river with pebbles and gravels under the stream of water, with the majority of the canvas covered by moss boulders. The painting next to it is a simple illustration of the beach. Glistening, white sands; riveting waves; a palm tree. The waters are azure, the tides white and cream, foaming at the shores. He stares into the blue waters for a long time.
</p><p>In June two years back, he and Phil went to a beach in the outskirts of town. Everyone else couldn't make it that day, so Phil stuck until sunset. The waters were clear enough for Tommy to see little white sands and pea gravels floating; seashells under his feet, sun on his skin. He didn't use a floatie, but he was lightweight on the water. Salt got in their eyes. Phil was always smiling.
</p><p>When the sun started to set, the skies were of burning ember. Phil took pictures Tommy still has in his phone gallery. He was treated to dinner on their way home, even though at the time Phil was tight on money, as he'd just moved out from his old apartment, a bit far off campus. They ate at a seaside restaurant and Phil talked about the famous crab platter, an all-time favorite in the restaurant.
</p><p>"Days like these aren't going to repeat," he told Tommy when they'd sat down in one of the outdoor chairs.
</p><p>They aren't.
</p><p>There's a statue on top of a cupboard. A white stone statue, a bust-length sculpture of an old Greek god. Tommy swipes his finger across the cheek of the statue's face and brushed the dust off his fingers. The waves of the Greek god's hair are reminiscent of Wil's curly brown locks. Tommy used to sprinkle sand on them like it was glitter, when he stopped wearing his old beanie. He would get mad, and then laugh it off.
</p><p>Sometimes he'd bring pebbles or strange items he'd picked up from the streets on his way home from school. He could talk about rocks and willow trees and sedimentary stones in rivers for hours on end, and Tommy would listen. After that, he'll keep his little rocks in the cup of his hands and shake them around like rolling a dice. Or he would wrap his sweater in itself, forming a pocket, and stuff them with the same rocks. The sweater would emit the same smell, they were still of the same color in Tommy's memory. A bright orange; the fabric having been used to wipe off the scrap on Tommy's knee when he was nine, after accidentally falling from the monkey bars.
</p><p>"Tommy?"
</p><p>Phil's voice is raspy through the phone. Tommy breathes in.
</p><p>"I want to file in a report. It's almost been a year, it would make sense. Can you help me out?"
</p><p>Tommy stares at his hands, waiting.
</p><p>"Phil?"
</p><p>"No..." Doubt ran through his breath. His words are hazy, "We can find him."
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Exams next week not pog</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. London</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>I've been having a hell lot of exams for the past few months, gladly I can get back to working on this again. my writing style's changed a tad tho. enjoy :)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Friday, September 20th<em></em></em>
</p><p>

Phil watches the bus roll past, away from the bus stop and eventually away from the main streets. In front of him, red double-deckers stroll past occasionally, taxis line up on one side, and people bustle around him on the sidewalk. He stared at his reflection on the bus stop and remembers what he came here for.
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em></em>
  </em>
</p><p>
He checks his phone. The place is about 10 minutes from here. Tommy'd told him about his new neighborhood, before he moved out of Nottingham. The district and the landmarks. But it took a bit of pestering and bribing on Phil's side to get his street and house number. Tommy didn't want a visitor, but <em>I need to talk to you, and I have to do it in person,</em> Phil told him. He's going to find out if Tommy's been lying about whether he'd been sleeping and eating. Whether he'd been thinking about Wil or not. Once he sees Tommy's face, he'll know everything. Phil fixed his snapback and walks off.
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"Phil?"
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The door creaked open. Tommy's mum is still holding the doorknob, but her grip is loosening. She eyed Phil from head to toe. "But... you were in Nottingham."
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"I need to see Tommy."
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Phil went upstairs and took a few turns. It smells like cedarwood in all the corners. This house has wider hallways, they stretch further than the ones in Tommy's old home. More doors. The furniture and displays, all rustic looking. French porcelain and deer head mounts in the living room. Tapestries on the walls and shabby rugs. Each time he takes a step, the floor creaks a tad. Wooden floors, no longer tiled and carpeted floors. Phil frowned at the unfamiliarity. This house is darker. <em>Turn right from the staircase, and then turn left. His room is at the end of the hallway.</em> He stopped before a door and knocked. "I'm here. I'm coming in."
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The knob won't budge.
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The grocery bag in his hand rustled. He stopped picking at the doorknob, his arm falling to his side. Tommy kicked the sheets off himself and sneaked out of bed. He puts a hand on the door. He looks at the doorknob, but his hands are still.
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"Tommy."
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Phil's voice reverberated off the walls slightly throughout the hallways. He paused. The Chinese takeout in his hands is getting cold. He tapped his feet on the ground lightly. All he could hear is silence, telling him to go back home, and his own foot tapping on the wood. The door clicked but didn't swing open.
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Phil pushed himself on the door, eyes immediately on Tommy. His complexion is sallow. Pale and sickly, like there's no blood flowing through his face. Dark circles. They never did video calls, not these past few months. Phil had no idea. He looked into Tommy's eyes, but Tommy stared at the wall behind him, gaze hollow. He set the takeouts down on Tommy's desk and took a look around. His room now reeks of stir-fried noodles and steamed dumplings. Boxes are piling up in one corner. The bedsheets are askew, desk empty and walls bare, white and beige, with thick, gray curtains covering the windows completely. There is almost no sunlight coming in. Phil inhaled. He yanked the curtains out of the way, letting a bit of sun in. Tommy didn't move an inch from his position.
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"So what is it?" Tommy muttered.
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He waits, his frown deepening. Phil stalled. He slid his hands through the bare work desk and noticed an empty glass. "Do you still hydrate?"
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Phil didn't look at his face. He opened the takeout boxes and took the empty glass away. Tommy clasped the hem of his shirt.
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Phil went out the door with the empty glass, downstairs to the kitchen. He came back to the door being locked, again.
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"Open it."
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"You're wasting my time. Get to the point."
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But he's not really doing anything these days. It's the first week of school. It's orientation. He doesn't have a summer job, well, he didn't. It's already fall. He's not working a part-time job, going to a youth camp, taking a cooking course, or whatever productive activity to take his mind off things and start functioning like a normal human again. All he does is play Minecraft. His time is plenty, he's got plenty of it. "Your time? You spend it beating the Enderdragon over and over again." Phil kept his mouth shut, however, and put the glass on the table near Tommy's bedroom door. He leaned on the door and took a deep breath.
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"Just help me phone the police."
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Phil scrunched his eyebrows. He was about to open his mouth; Tommy got ahead of him. He was going to start first, but it was difficult. More difficult than he'd thought. This isn't as easy as the phone call he made to Tommy back in April, after he'd gone to Wil's home, finding it empty. No signs of life. The only trace of Wil he found was his basketball on his bed. His tongue went bitter.
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"They won't help us. They don't give a shit, they're not gonna take this seriously."
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"And how the fuck would you know that?" Tommy asked, low.
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Phil paused. "One of my mates back in Newcastle went missing. I phoned them, they told me to wait 2 days. There was no follow-up whatsoever. 6 months. I called again, same thing."
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"And what the hell is stopping you from trying again?"
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"It's fucking useless."
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Tommy rested his forehead on the door. Dark clouds filled his eyes.
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"You just don't give a shit about Wil." His hand slid down the wood. "Isn't it? Is it what it is?"
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The hallways are silent. Phil lets the silence speak over him, for a moment. Tommy picks his nails, holds his breath.
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"So I was right?"
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"No, Tommy..." Phil's voice trails off. "That's what I was going to talk about."
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"Then spit it out."
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A lump lodged itself in Phil's throat. His mind surfs, thoughts surging. He didn't travel several hundred miles here to fidget in front of Tommy's bedroom door and stumble on his words. He's supposed to be sitting on the edge of his bed, telling him the truth. Looking into his eyes, making sure they don't get even darker. But Phil has no idea how to make Tommy understand. He doesn't want to make Tommy understand.
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"He's not actually missing," was all he needed to say.
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"I can't."
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"Then fuck off."
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It's been months. Tommy should've already known by now. Phil bit the inside of his cheek. He should go home.</p><p>
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